The Path to the Bush

It is said, no less correctly than beautifully, that mercy blesses twice; both him who bestows it, and him who receives it. The remark applies, in all its truth and force, to that species of compassion which has the salvation of the heathen for its object, and the cause of missions for its instrumentality. Our pity for the souls of those poor outcasts has had, in various ways, a reflex operation upon ourselves. Not only are our own graces strengthened by exercise, but we are actually raising up amidst those who were once the children of the desert, and whose minds were as barren and as hideous as the wilds they inhabit, examples of Christian virtue which we would do well to imitate.

Instances of simple piety have come to us from "the dark places of the earth" and "the habitations of cruelty," which ought to redden with the blush of shame, the countenance of many a professing Christian in this land of refinement. Some of our converts have outstripped us in the spiritual life, and excelled us in the practical lessons of the school of our Divine Master. Let us not be too proud to learn from those whom we have assisted to teach. And if, from the ices of Greenland, the deserts of Africa, the islands of the Pacific, or the blood-stained shores of Madagascar, there come to us, either in the converts, or by the reports of our beloved missionaries, instances of passive or of active holiness, superior to our own—let us turn them to account, and make them tributary to our own growth in grace.

The short and simple story in the following pages is of this nature. It struck me, when I first heard it from the lips of the good missionary who related it, as a gem which would well bear setting, and having been applied to by the editor of an American Annual for a contribution to his work, I drew up the substance of the following tract (now somewhat enlarged), and sent it across the Atlantic. It was published in a periodical, entitled "The Episcopal Recorder," and has had the honor of being copied into almost every other religious periodical in the United States. Upon receiving this information, I determined upon committing it to the press in this country, with the hope that so beautiful an instance of Christian reproof may stir up and direct many here in the performance of that important, but difficult, and, therefore, much neglected duty.

19:43, 11 November 2012 (UTC)19:43, 11 November 2012 (UTC)

Mr. Read, missionary in South Africa, related, when in England, the following fact.

It is the practice of some of the Christian Hottentots, at some of the stations, in order to enjoy the privilege of secret prayer, with greater privacy and freedom than they could do in their own confined and incommodious dwellings, to retire among the trees and bushes, in the vicinity of their village; and that they may carry on their devotions without being intruded on by others, and also derive all that tranquilizing influence which would be produced by a spot, with which no other occupations, thoughts, and feelings are associated, than such as are holy, each individual selects for his own use a particular bush, behind which, and concealed by it, he may commune with his heavenly Father in secret, as Nathaniel did under his fig tree.

By the rest, this bush is considered as an oratory sacred to the brother or sister by whom it had been appropriated; and which, therefore, is never to be violated by the foot, or even by the gaze of another, during the season it is occupied by its proprietor. The constant tread of the worshipers, in their repeated visits to these hallowed spots, would, of necessity, wear a path in the grass which lay between their habitations and the sylvan scene of their communion with God.

On one occasion, a Christian Hottentot woman said to another female member of their little community, "Sister, I am afraid you are somewhat declining in piety." The words were accompanied with a look of affection, and were uttered with a tone that savored nothing of railing accusation, nor of reproachful severity, but was expressive of tender fidelity, and the meekness of wisdom. The individual thus addressed, asked her friend for the reason of her fears. "Because," replied this good and gentle spirit, "the grass has grown over your path to your bush."

Nature carrying on its usual progress had disclosed the secret. The backslider could not deny the fact; there, in the springing herbage, was the indisputable evidence that the feet which had once trodden it down had ceased to frequent the spot. She did not attempt to excuse it, but fell under the sweet influence of this sisterly reproof, and confessed, with ingenuous shame and sorrow, that her heart had turned away from the Lord. The admonition had its desired effect; the sinner was converted from the error of her ways, and her watchful and faithful reprover had the satisfaction and reward of seeing the wanderer restored, not only to the path to the bush, but to the renewed favor of that God with whom she there again communed in secret.

Each party in this short and simple narrative is deserving, not only of our admiration, but of our imitation; the reprover for the fidelity, wisdom, and gentleness of love with which she exercised her sisterly vigilance; and the object of her solicitude, for the meekness and practical improvement with which she bowed to the voice of affectionate reproof.

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